All men are forgetful. The Duke feared that some men had forgotten the details of Gen. Varden Waymouth's notable life. The publicity bureau, obeying crafty suggestions and not understanding just what it was all about, began in the stress of that campaign to recall stories of the old days. And no man represented the old days as did Varden Waymouth, hero, scholar, and statesman. There were giants in the old days, and every machine newspaper in the State hailed General Waymouth as chief of the giants. They contrasted the present with the past. General Waymouth's picture gazed forth in stately benignity from every broadside—his life story filled the columns of newspapers and the mouths of men.
With Arba Spinney's activities Thornton was in touch at all times. More than ever before Mr. Spinney merited his title "Fog-horn." He was striking the high places in the State, pouring language from under the mat of his mustache, warning all men off the political shoals of "the machine." From those shoals he was scooping up mud in both hands, and spattering all men and all measures. He found plenty of listeners, for protest was abroad. But the persistent defamer irritates even his friends. He offends the innate sense of patriotism and loyalty which slinks even in the breast of the rebel. The Duke noted with satisfaction the outward symptoms of Mr. Spinney's campaign; he was winning a following in those days of unrest. Through the columns of his newspapers the old politician exploited Mr. Spinney, seeing to it that he was well advertised as a man who persistently branded his own State as a den of infamy. Thus he made Spinney strong enough to play against Everett and weak enough to fall far in the estimation of men when the time came for him to fall.
And then at last, in the latter days of June, all roads led to Rome. The Republican Convention was called for the twenty-eighth, in the big hall of the State's metropolis.
On the day before, Thelismer Thornton emerged from the back room of headquarters at the State capital, and with Chairman Presson and Harlan journeyed to the scene of the conflict. Before their departure the Duke had been obliged, smilingly, to refuse a request of Mrs. Presson's.
She had asked that young Mr. Thornton be delegated as squire of dames to accompany herself and her party to the convention.
"I'm afraid you haven't realized for a week or so that the boy is in politics, Lucretia. I've let him run to pasture with a pretty long cord on him. He'll have to come in under the saddle now. We'll have one of the young beaus from the Governor's staff on the lookout for you at the hall. This fellow here"—he patted Harlan's arm—"he hasn't been broken to the society bridle yet. He was allowing to me the other day that he didn't propose to be, either."
Miss Presson had overheard.
Harlan, remembering, flashed a glance of rebuke and anger at the old man. It was a shock to him to have his own sentiments thrust back at him in that manner.
"We haven't found Mr. Harlan ungallant," protested Mrs. Presson. She treated the matter in jest, though the young man's face did not indicate that he especially appreciated the humor.
"Oh, he's probably just been playing 'possum—practising dissimulation, getting used to being a politician! You be watching out, Lucretia. He'll forget himself and make a bolt pretty soon. The test of the thing will be in seeing whether he holds out or not!"